by Carl Reiner
An Untitled Memory of Johnny Carson
In the thirty years of Johnny Carson’s reign as the host of The Tonight Show, I was privileged to be his guest forty-seven times. This memory is about one of those appearances.
* * *
Johnny Carson is considered, by everyone who ever owned a television set, to be the host of hosts, the greatest ever, and I concur, but to me he is, more importantly, a true and caring friend. It was he who, on February 24, 1981, came into my dressing room twenty minutes before the start of his show and insisted that I cancel my appearance that night and get myself to a hospital.
Earlier that afternoon, about a half hour before I left home, a dull pain had developed in my chest and persisted in making itself felt with every breath I took. I was pretty sure it was a temporary condition, attributable to the large chopped vegetable salad I had eaten for lunch. “Trapped gas” was my wife’s diagnosis, and I concurred. She suggested that I would get instant relief by getting into the famous knee-chest position her gynecologist had recommended, and which Estelle had many times used successfully during her three pregnancies. What had worked marvelously for her did nothing for me. The pain was dull and dogged, but remained tolerable enough for me to get into my car and drive to the NBC studios in Burbank.
I had been looking forward to chatting with Johnny about the new film I had directed, which was opening that weekend, and I was determined to go on, pain or no. From the very first time I set foot on a stage, starting when I was seventeen years old, I had never, ever missed a performance! Neither snow nor rain nor fever nor flu nor allergies nor dislocated vertebrae nor the skin ripped from my back, could keep me from my appointed performances.*
When I arrived at NBC’s famous Studio 2, Johnny Carson, who very quickly became aware of the pain I was experiencing, suggested that I not ignore it and get myself to a hospital emergency ward. He said not to worry about the show, he and Ed McMahon would fill in my time by goofing around a little longer at the top the show. I called my internist, Dr. Norman Bobes, and he agreed with Johnny, but because the pain was tolerable, I was hesitant to leave. I kept thinking, The show must go on … the show must go on! I struck a compromise with Johnny and the doctor. I would do the ten-minute spot with Johnny, talk about the movie, show a clip from it and thereby keep intact my record of never missing a performance for any reason.
I was the first guest on, and I remember talking very fast, and hearing a lot of laughs. The audience must have sensed that I was in a panic mode, and decided to help out.
Less than an hour after shaking Johnny’s hand and waving to the audience, I was lying in a Century City Hospital bed, and being hovered over by Dr. Bobes, whose professional hands were gently pressing on my appendix, gall bladder, and the other places on my abdomen where doctors always press. He ruled out appendicitis, and was almost sure it wasn’t my gall bladder giving me the pain, but admitted that he could not make a positive diagnosis until they did a liver scan, which he had ordered for the morning. Since the pain, while still bearable, might worsen during the night, the doctor ordered Demerol, to help me sleep.
The show, which we taped at 5:00 P.M., would be airing that night, and I was curious to see how nutty I had acted, so I eschewed taking the Demerol until after the show. And what do you know—at about midnight, while watching myself on television, and laughing at something Johnny said, I felt the pain in my chest inelegantly and unceremoniously leave my body. The same condition that beset me in Chapter 2, “The Phar-Reaching Phart,” resurfaced, but this time, blessedly, there was no Mrs. Mahler staring accusingly at me, and no eight-year-old kids laughing hysterically at the loud, antisocial noise I produced. Now the only laughter heard was my own! I called home immediately, and heard my wife laugh when I told her that her diagnosis had just been proven correct.
Since it is impossible to leave a hospital legally without a doctor’s blessings, I had to wait for the morning to be discharged. Morning arrived in my hospital room hours earlier than it did in my home. At 6:30, a compact piece of machinery was wheeled into my room by a smiling, green-clad technician, who woke me up and cheerily announced his intention of doing a scan of my liver. I protested, saying that, as of midnight, I was completely cured, but the smiling technician had his scanning orders, and I owned the liver he was ordered to scan, so, ignoring my wishes, he scanned away. Dr. Bobes arrived an hour later and, after hearing me describe how and why I was feeling so chipper, agreed that the liver scan, which he reported showed my liver to be functioning normally, had not been necessary. He apologized for the inconvenience, and for the zealousness of the gung-ho technician.
About a month after being released, I received an itemized bill for my overnight stay at the hospital. As I checked the bill, I smiled, as I am doing now. Had Johnny Carson not insisted that I rush myself to a hospital, I would have missed the pleasure of end-titling, The Untitled Memory of Johnny Carson, The Twenty-Six-Hundred-Dollar Phart!
25
Lanie Kazan’s Box
I have no idea how many benefits I have emceed in my career, but I know that all of them were a success, at least from the standpoint of how I fared as the host. If I had to rate my performances on a scale of one to ten, I would have to brag that all were at least an eight.
“At least an eight?” you ask. “Aren’t we being a tad immodest?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What makes you so cocksure?” I don’t blame you for asking.
Well, I could cite the reactions of the audiences, but you might rightly consider that an unverifiable, subjective opinion. I think the irrefutable evidence is the reaction of the Powers That Be who, each year, invite me back. Only one performance, out of the scores that I have done, would I have to rate as a disaster—and sadly, that was a night when I was on my way to a perfect ten.
At this juncture, to make you understand why I seem to be an insufferably pompous ass, I will make you privy to two things: one, a partial list of the black-tie events I have hosted, and two, a personal history of my physical traumas.
BLACK-TIE EVENTS:
Big Brothers Show Biz Bash
twenty-five years
Carl Reiner Tennis Tournament (benefiting the Eras Foundation)
twenty-five years
Directors Guild Awards Dinner
seventeen years (and still counting)
Young Musicians Foundation
fifteen years (and still counting)
HISTORY OF PHYSICAL TRAUMAS:
a sprained arm—1924
a large cinder in right eye that, for removal, required the trained hand of a neighborhood druggist—1928
badly scraped chin from falling up the stairs (scar still visible)—1929
six fingertips split open when a firecracker exploded in hand—1930
right ankle badly gashed by a flying shard of glass—1933
fleshy part of right hand ripped by a rusty backsaw—1934
two sprained ankles—1934 and 1973
a goodly amount of really nasty paper cuts—1927 to 2003
There you have all the accidents that have befallen me since I stood upright and, except for the paper cuts, they all occurred in the first twelve years of my life. None required heroic measures or even stitches. Not until I hosted the Young Musicians Foundation dinner at the Beverly Hilton Hotel for the tenth time did I ever experience a major trauma. As traumas go, this one was, by far, the most dramatic, inconvenient, painful, and embarrassing one that ever befell me. It is recorded in my memory book as my-longest-recovery-time-from-an-accident-that-could-easily-have-been-avoided-had-somebody-warned-me-of-the-booby-trap.
At this glorious event, young scholarship students sponsored by the Young Musicians Foundation, came from all over the world to perform at the yearly fund-raising event. Young virtuoso soloists are given the opportunity to play and be accompanied by a full-sized symphony orchestra. The orchestra members, led by a budding young conductor, are all under twenty, and if you closed your eyes while they played, y
ou would think you were listening to one of the country’s established philharmonic orchestras.
My role was no different than it had been for the dozen or so previous galas. Between introducing the various segments of the show, I look for, and usually find, something to kid about. For the first half of the show, I was doing very well. At these events, to help spur ticket sales, a guest star will graciously lend their presence, and this night it was the wonderful actress-singer Lanie Kazan who would be accompanied by the YMF’s youth orchestra.
Most singers, to know how they are blending with their accompaniment, usually employ a monitor. A monitor is nothing more than an unobtrusive black box that houses a small speaker. Unbeknownst to me, while I was at the mike singing her praises in a heartfelt introduction, a stealthy stagehand quietly placed Lanie Kazan’s box on the stage.
I think by now you understand that the title of this anecdote is not a prurient one, although I was aware it sounded like one. Those of you who are not easily offended I think will agree that it was too perfect a title not to use. (I have made my friend Lanie aware of my intentions. She laughed and gave me her blessings.)
The youth orchestra acquitted themselves nobly, and Lanie, as always, was a smash, and the encores the audience demanded were graciously delivered.
Following Lanie Kazan, I was to introduce the fun-filled fund-raising portion of the program that we called the Passing of the Baton. As the auctioneer, I had never failed to extract at least $5,000 from some member of the audience who was thrilled to own a baton that had been passed from the hand of one great Hollywood composer-conductor to the hand of another. Each year, the young musicians were given the opportunity to play the classic themes that would be conducted by the four musical giants who had composed them. Previous years the likes of David Rose, Elmer Bernstein, Pete Rugalo, Jerry Goldsmith, David Raskin, John Williams, and Henry Mancini had participated in the baton-passing ritual. In auctioning off the baton, one of my big selling strategies was pointing out to the bidders how exciting and valuable it would be to own a baton on whose cork handle the sweat of four great conductors had commingled. Every year I would convince someone that dried sweat was even more valuable than moist sweat, and no matter how much they paid for the baton, it would never, ever lose its value—unless they tried to sell it.
I had walked on and off the stage many times that evening. As Lanie Kazan bowed and made her exit stage left, I was standing stage right waiting to make my entrance. In my hand was the baton I would give to Henry Mancini, our first conductor, who was waiting for me to introduce him. I always try to make brisk entrances, as all performers do when they reach a certain age. The older members of the audiences enjoy checking to see if there is still a spring in our step.
I do not remember exactly how many brisk steps I took before I tripped over something that I could not see, and I know had not been there the half dozen times I entered and exited the stage. By now you know that it was Lanie Kazan’s box, the black monitor that had been placed on the black stage. With a bright spotlight in my eyes, there was no chance that I could see the perfectly camouflaged black box. My show-offy brisk walk helped propel me high into the air, where, desperately but unsuccessfully, I tried to make purchase with something solid. As I fell to the ground, I remember two things, a quick, sharp pain in my right leg that subsided almost immediately and the audience laughing at what must have looked like my version of Chevy Chase doing his impression of President Ford. I tried to hop up and say something clever, but my right leg just lay there limp and unresponsive to the urgent message my brain was sending it, Get up, the show must go on!
At this point, I knew something bad had happened, and I told the audience, very matter-of-factly, “I think something bad just happened,” which got a laugh. My wife, who was sitting at a ringside table, did not laugh. She knew, as I did, that I needed really good professional help. I asked for the hand mike, and while lying on my side, put my wife at ease and informed the audience that I was fine and that my pratfall was a real fall. I am not sure, but I think I actually got to say that immortal line, “Is there a doctor in the house?” And there was—an orthopedic surgeon, a Dr. Elconin, who ultimately did the necessary surgical repairs!
My freak accident became the entire focus of the audience’s attention, and I knew that there would be no Passing of the Baton until the paramedics carted me off. While lying on the stage chatting with the audience, I saw sitting at a table, and frowning empathetically, one of my oldest and dearest friends, a brilliantly funny man whom I had known in the army and with whom I shared a dressing room when we played in the Broadway musical revue Inside U.S.A. Who better to save the day? Before I could finish asking my old buddy Louis Nye if he would come up onstage and take over, he was at the podium and making the audience forget that, five feet to his left, there was a crumpled man waiting for an ambulance. I don’t remember what Louis said, but whatever he was saying was getting big, big laughs.
Weeks later somebody who was in the audience said that seeing Louis Nye doing his act while his friend lay prostrate downstage of a group of happy, laughing, fresh-faced violinists, oboists, and timpanists made him feel as if he were in a Fellini movie.
The arrival of the paramedics and the finish of Louis Nye’s performance happened simultaneously. Now the entertainment switched to live drama. The audience was totally tuned in to what was happening onstage. I think I got a laugh or two when I balked at a paramedic’s decision to free my leg by slitting open my pants with a scissor.
“No!” I screamed. “Not my lucky tuxedo pants!”
Ignoring my protestations they sliced open my pants, straightened my bent leg, splinted it, put me on a stretcher, and carried me off the stage to huge applause and a waiting ambulance.
I was whisked to Cedars-Sinai Hospital where a serious-faced doctor informed me that the tendon in my kneecap (patella) had snapped, causing the long muscle that runs up my thigh, (quadriceps) to “roll up like a window shade.” Dr. Elconin and his skilled staff, using a lot of medical and operating-room equipment, snipped off the jagged end of the torn tendon, unrolled my quadriceps, and reattached it to my patella. After doing a magnificent job of suturing the eight-inch incision on my kneecap, (I will display it on request), the doctor assured me that, in a very short time I would be able to walk, trip, and fall as well as ever.
The day following my operation, while recuperating in my room, I received a phone call from a soft-spoken woman who seemed genuinely concerned about my health and well-being. At first I thought it was sweet Edie Rugalo, the chairman of the YMF, and then I assumed that she was a hospital worker or a Grey Lady volunteer. Whoever she was, I assured her that I was being well taken care of and that besides being a little groggy and uncomfortable, I was in no pain. I was happy to chat with someone who seemed to care until I realized that this overly solicitous person was not from the YMF and had not been at the function.
When she asked, “How long do you think this injury will incapacitate you?” and “Do you think you will be able to get back to work pretty soon?” it became clear that I was talking to an insurance company representative. Her next question made me smile. It was a perfect straight line for an old second banana, and I could not resist playing it out until I got that one question I knew must come.
“Mr. Reiner, was there a witness around when you tripped and fell?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Do you have that person’s name and address?”
“Yes, one was my wife, Estelle Reiner.”
“One? Your wife wasn’t your only witness?”
“No, there were others.”
“How many others?”
“Eleven hundred thirty-six, give or take a few.”
I filled in the long pause she took by adding, “That’s eleven hundred thirty-six without counting a full symphony orchestra who were behind me when I took the flying leap. I think you should know that all my witnesses, including the orchestra and the conductor, can be trusted to tel
l the truth—and do you know why?”
“No, why?” was the faint response.
“Because they were all dressed in tuxedos or evening gowns,” I answered smugly, “and, as everyone knows, people who dress in formal attire just do not lie.”
I assured the flustered woman that I had no intention of suing the hotel or the Young Musicians Foundation or the stagehand who did not remove Lanie’s monitor or the paramedic who ripped open my tux pants. I have never sued, or been sued, and I’m proud of that statistic.
With the help of the following: a leg cast; crutches; a cane; my assistant Bess Scher; six months of intensive physical therapy; and my loving wife, Estelle, I regained the use of everything but my tuxedo.
About that ruined tuxedo that I chose to wear that memorable night—I had vacillated between my twelve-hundred-dollar made-to-measure beauty or an emergency backup tux that I bought at C&R Clothiers for $265. If you guessed that I wore my $1,200 job, you’d have guessed wrong. The only pleasure I took from that whole negative experience was knowing that the paramedics were not slicing up the trousers of my expensive tux. I still have that tux and intend to wear it to this year’s YMF dinner. If I fall and break anything before this book is published, there will be an addendum to this anecdote.*
26
A Recipe to Remember
Back when the war in Vietnam was raging, many American citizens were raging about the immorality and the indefensibility of the war, and I was one of those citizens. It took me a little longer than some to become aware that what we were doing there was wrong. At the outset, no one wanted to believe we were given false information about the North Vietnamese firing on our ships in the Gulf of Tonkin. The incident, which never happened, precipitated our waging an undeclared war that, thanks to some wrongheaded decisions, caused 58,000 Americans and countless Vietnamese, Cambodians, and Laotians to lose their lives. There are enough words written by American scholars, historians, military men, politicians, and journalists that detail how and why we got into that mess, and I cannot add anything new or revelatory, but I can tell you about the two most emotionally involving appearances I ever made in my career as an emcee.